my number seven
by winteredspark
Summary: /She snuffs out the candle next to Beck's picture on the mantle and Cat watches smoke drift from the black wick. She doesn't get up./ Or the loss of Beck.     .


**:. _m_ _y_ . n u m b e r . _s e v e n_ .**:

**So, another little nagging plot bunny. I probably won't like where this goes, but we'll see. Be aware: the plot line goes in reverse. **

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Someone's stroking her hair - crimson hair, flowing like rippling rivers of blood, wafting like the scent of cherries. _Beck smells like cherries_, thinks Cat. _Maybe he rolled around in them one day and never washed the smell quite off his skin. _

Everything is muted, like she is sinking deeper and deeper into the silence of the ocean - it's suffocating and she feels numb.

"Are you coming?" A woman's voice asks. It's her mother - she smells vanilla candles and low fat french vanilla yogurt.

Cat's eyes move around the room, but not much at all really. She sees curtains pulled over windows - it casts everything in darkness; she wants to rip them open and dance in the sunlight - and flames dancing over jasmine candles.

Jade smells like jasmine - when she leans over Beck with her black, black nails and sardonic smirk _possessively_.

"I think he would have liked you to be there," says her mom, voice choked. Cat wonders why everything is so dark and quiet; did the president order a national day of rest?

More silence. Cat wishes that she could roll in fields of cherries so that maybe she could hold onto Beck's scent. It's a rather tantalizing scent, after all.

"Beck liked rolling in cherries," says Cat.

Cat doesn't have to look up to see the confusion on her mother's face; it's always the same look everyone gets when she tries to say something. A strangled sound catches in Cat's throat and then she feels wet drops on her face - and they kind of burn. Is this what crying feels like?

"Okay," her mom whispers.

She snuffs out the candle next to Beck's picture on the mantle and Cat watches smoke drift from the black wick. She doesn't get up.

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There is blood - staining the concrete and her hands; so much blood. She presses hands against his chest and tries to push the life back into him, but all she does it dye her hands permanently red. They ooze with blood and it almost smells like cherries, like Beck.

"Damn it," someone is screaming. "_Damn you_, Cat! How could you _do this_ to him?" Cat sees Jade, watches her scream, watches tears trail down cheeks and leave swollen smudges of black mascara. It almost looks pretty from here.

It is her fault, Cat thinks, because if she hadn't asked him that question (_what would you do if I wasn't here?_) then none of this would have happened. But then again, it's Jade's fault for being so promiscuous.

Cat smiles - because she's never done bitter. "You look like art," she tells Jade.

More screaming, Jade pleading for him to wake up. Fingers stretch and Cat presses them against Beck's wrist.

He's so cold. (_There's no pulse_.)

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She lies down in bed, counts the stickers of the stars pasted to her ceiling - she always loses her place at ninety-six, because there's something magical about the number seven.

_"You're my number seven."_ That's what Beck whispers in her ear every time they're alone. But not now; now she's number six, because he won't talk to her and she never wondered what heartbreak was until now.

Stretching, pulling up covers until they cover her body (and she never slept naked until she met Beck, until he made promises he could never keep.)

A text ringing, vibrating against her thigh. Eight letters: _i love you, _from Beck.

Cat smiles, can't help it, is about to reply when she hears the crash outside - _and it's her dreams all over again_. Screeching tires, the acrid smell of burning metal, burning flesh.

She knows it's him, knows it beyond anything she's ever known before.

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Jade passes her in the hallway, smirks like the devil.

"Beck was always mine," Jade says, "you know that?"

_No_, thinks Cat, shifting her books into her locker. _That's not it at all. _

"What's that supposed to mean?" It comes out a little stumbling, a little full of disbelief.

Jade licks her lips and her eyes gleam like infinite pits - _we all fall down & down & never stop._ So she likes nursery rhymes; this one had roses in it and she just couldn't skip it. "You know exactly what it means," she hisses.

Cat sees it then: Jade's not the monster of this story. Jade is lost - Jade is missing Beck because she lost him because she never trusted herself. Jade is just another pawn, and that makes the words pause on Cat's tongue, wrap uncertainly.

_You were never what he was looking for, Jade, _Cat thinks. _You will never be his number seven because you're so determined to be a demon and demons always associate with the number six. _

"You're a six," says Cat.

Jade cocks an eyebrow. "You need help," she mutters in a voice dripping with animosity. Then she walks away, and Cat notices that she doesn't have Beck's arm around her shoulder either. They both lost.

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They're lying on the floor of his RV - because the bed tastes like sex and they were too lazy to actually make it that far.

"You smell like cherries," Cat tells Beck, tracing patterns on his chest. Cherries remind her of summer and summer reminds her of first loves and never-ending romance. It reminds her that loving Beck is worth it, even when sometimes - just every once in awhile - he forgets little secrets she tells him, little pieces of who she is.

"Um," says Beck, "okay." He kisses her forehead absentmindedly and Cat knows he's confused. They always are.

"You're my number seven," he says into her hair. The words reek of emptiness.

Silence crashes over like waves, drowning them in the depths of what if's.

"What would you do if I wasn't here?" Cat asks him. Maybe she's just bored - or maybe she's legitimately curious for what his answer will be. She traces the shape of a flying carpet on his bare chest and smiles to herself.

Beck doesn't answer for a long them; then his hands grab hers and somehow he's gone before she can even process what happened.

(maybe...possibly - she's not his number seven - _no_, she _has_ to be.)

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She traces the letter _7_ into her notebook over and over again until you can't even see the white of the paper anymore, only the letter _7_ bleeding through like a curse.

_7_ . **7** . _7 . - _7 (_7) ._ 7 .

7 - 7- **_7 -._**7 .- **7 -.**

Maybe if Cat traces it enough times, maybe she'll always be his number seven (_and maybe she can ignore the black lipstick marks on his neck that can only belong to one girl_.)

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Jade sees them holding hands - _and for once it's Cat & Beck instead of Jade & Beck_. Jade sees their thumbs stroking each other, sees the smiles on their faces, sees the pure happiness of it all. It's enough to make anyone sick.

She hates happiness. And being sick, so it's a double whammy.

"What did the kangaroo say to the chicken?" Cat asks Beck. Her boyfriend; she tastes the word in her thoughts and likes the sound of it.

He only raises an eyebrow - because, hello, he knows she made it up.

"Cock-a-doodle-roo!" Cat says with a giggle. His fingers tighten around hers and she looks up at his face, expects to find even a hint of mirth. But she doesn't.

The reflection of Jade rushing towards the restroom dances in Beck's eyes and his grip becomes painful. She lets go.

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"You never told me when you and Jade broke up," Cat says one day. She's smiling in that carefree way that only she can manage and it's because she's so radiantly happy.

Beck kisses her cheek - and it's too soft, too sweet. He was always more demanding with Jade, Cat remembers.

"Who said we did?" Beck asks.

Silence; her face pales. "Am I still your number seven?" she asks.

"I'm your boyfriend," Beck says. "Of course you're my number seven."

There's something wrong with his answer; Cat's afraid to pinpoint it.

.

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She's sore afterwords.

"Did I hurt you?" Beck asks. Cat brushes back his thick black hair with shaking fingers and realizes one truth: she's never felt so whole.

(the truth that Jade did the same thing with him doesn't bother her at all - of course it doesn't.)

"No," Cat whispers, and it's a lie but she won't tell him about the blood leaking down between her legs. It's worth it.

His eyes glint and she can't breathe because _oh god, she loves him_, and she doesn't know how to tell him. "You smell like cherries," Cat breathes, and it's true as true can be.

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He tells her he loves her on their first date.

"Do you know what is significant about the number seven?" Beck asks her. She scoops a forkful of pasta into her mouth and swallows happily - she never thought something like this could actually happen.

"It's a name and a number," Cat guesses. "You know: _Sev_, and _seven_."

"No," Beck says bluntly. She appreciates his honesty. "It's supposedly the perfect number, and that makes it magical."

Magic reminds Cat of celebrations. "Like streamers?" she asks.

"Sure," says Beck. He takes her hand and it smells like cherries. "You're my number seven, Cat."

He tastes like cherries, too.

(and, okay, so he doesn't say he loves her, but he got pretty close.)

.

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One day Beck just stops hanging out around Jade - _and there's no more kisses and her remarks become sharper than ever_.

Cat's not sure how she got here, but somehow Beck is lying in her arms trying not to cry - because he's a "man," whatever that means - and she's sniffing his hair; it smells like strawberries.

"Can I sing you a song?" Cat asks. Maybe it will help; besides, she loves singing the Little Mermaid and Beck would probably love singing it too.

"You can come over to my place for dinner tomorrow night," Beck says. She catches her breath and thinks: _what are friends for?_

"Okay."

(somehow, she thinks, the scented candles and roses set up for her when she gets there aren't for just friends.)

.

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When Cat is a little girl she witnesses something horrific:

(-_watching from her window she sees wheels spinning out of control, watches metal crumple, hears unearthly screams_.)

She remembers the metallic scent of blood - it almost smells like ripe cherries - and the ambulances racing with sirens wailing.

In her little mind Cat knows, oh she knows, that she will not, cannot, go through something like that again - _because death is forever and she can't grasp the feeling of living without someone_.

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**- the end - **

**.**

**So I liked the first half of this and then I started to dislike it about half way through. Your thoughts are welcome, however. **


End file.
